The Double-Clutched Bus

“Did that really happen?”

 

After so many years, I am still asked this question, and usually from a highly-skeptical person using a highly-skeptical tone. I am always obliged to say yes, as a matter of fact, it did, and to add, there’s probably quite a bit that I’ve forgotten. It was, after all, over thirty years ago. Specifics are fading, as are some other finite details, but the main events remain. I decided I probably ought to sketch it down before more memories lapse, or God forbid, one of us moves on. To comment, we were all so very young, and with that comes silliness and stupidity, but also triumph and indelible glory. Well, maybe in our eyes. 

You see, it all revolves around this beast pictured above, or one just like it. Sadly, this isn’t a photo of the actual object at the center of attention, but for the purposes of this exercise, it’s pretty much identical. That, my friends, is a 1970 Volkswagen Type 2, also known as a kombi (as on the manual), but here in the United States, we just call it a bus. I was fresh out of college, and by that I mean that I had dropped out for work and music. And because I dropped out, my contingent parental college gift -- a completely dangerous Datsun 280Z in two-tone blue/silver -- had been reclaimed and later sold <sniffle>. I loved that car. It was fast, fun to drive, and the gals liked it, but it was out to murder me. 145mph top speed logged on the only lengthy straightaway of Price Road in Hall County, GA. At night. Insanity. Youthful invincibility.

Now for its replacement, and here’s the first casualty of memory. I can’t remember where I bought it, or the circumstances. I only recall it being sort of hippie-cool, utilitarian, and that it only cost $800. The previous owner removed all but the front seats and installed a carpeted bench over the engine compartment at the rear. I’d have no trouble hauling my huge 12-piece double-bassed Tama drum kit to rehearsals and gigs. A relief actually, since I had to completely dismantle them -- small drums placed inside larger drums -- to fit them in the Z. In fact, there was so much new cargo space inside that bus that I could set them up and actually play them while sitting on that back bench. And that’s when someone got a bright idea, but let me rewind a bit.

Something akin this one, except this one’s much nicer.

The kombi soon gained a reputation amongst my closest friends as the default party wagon. I was a (usually) safe driver and we always made it home somehow after a late night of rehearsing or partying. Someone always had the run of their parent’s house back then -- any given weekend. We ran in musical circles, so often times those parties involved a band, or a few of them, jamming until the wee hours in front of folks dancing between the wreckage of bottles and Solo cups. After all the music and consuming, and consummation!, the bus doors opened and we escaped into the night at a blistering 60mph. That was all the VW could manage on a flat road after 17 years of duty with an oil-gobbing 60hp engine, where it could be certain that some of its horses had escaped, and many of its torques had petered. We were in constant danger of a traffic citation too, for uphill on the local Interstate 985, our speed would occasionally dip below the 40mph minimum. That later became one of our challenges on the long rides home to Gainesville Georgia from our Atlanta rehearsals. We all took turns at the wheel, trying desperately to outdo each other. What’s the fastest a VW bus can go, anyway? More about that later.

The bandmate that accompanied me most was Monty. While he owned a slick silver Mazda RX-7 that wasn’t good for band transport, even for just himself. He is a bassist (yay to rhythm section pals!) of dashing demeanor who possesses a keen wit for sarcasm, and loved goofing around on the bus. His forever guitarist buddy is Jimmy -- another hilarious fellow -- and the three of us would sometimes get bored late at night when Gainesville slept. Small town blues, but Monty and Jimmy were devilishly inventive where adolescent clandestine entertainment was concerned. Especially when they brought along yet another psycho named Chad, who didn’t play any instrument, but Jesus he could DRIVE. The bus soon became employed in our hooligan shenanigans. Nothing by the roadside was safe, but the specialty became -- well, I’ve no pet name for it, but the activity involved towing a slightly-weighted plastic milk or Clorox jug with fishing line through various neighborhoods. Whose could last the longest? Who could make the farthest distance from the bus? Who would lose a finger if the line wrapped around a mailbox and they forget to let go? This went on for days until one of the guys saw my drum kit set up and thought it would be fun for them to drive me around while I performed a solo.

Click…

Okay, you can guess where this was going.

A short time afterward, Monty and Jimmy showed up with their instruments, their amplifiers, and small Honda gasoline-powered generator outputting just enough juice to power them. Chad was there too. Band in a van. Chauffeured, no less. One problem though; the generator exhaust. That could suffocate us quite easily if we weren’t careful, so we placed it on the rear bench with the muffler pipe aimed towards the rear vent window. That sort of worked while underway, but not 100%. Not even 80% actually, and over several minutes, that residual 20% escalated to intolerable levels. A short jam, then off for venting. No worries; Jimmy wasn’t in the same band as Monty and I at that time, so we only knew one song between us. “Balls to the Wall” by Accept. Metalheads us…

Off we went! First, through the suburbia of Oakwood, GA then towards the east. We snapped onto the interstate headed north towards Gainesville. Chad was ambitious and we were game, so a speed record attempt was in order. Now folks (and you can read this in that announcer for the Dukes of Hazzard announcer’s voice), this is there the boys seemed like they were in a heap of trouble. ‘Cept we weren’t. Just absolutely nuts, but if you ask any of us, yes, this actually happened too. Chad gave that bus every last inch of the rod managing to land us somewhere above 70mph at the top of a long northbound downhill before I-985’s (then) Exit 6 in Gainesville (now Exit 22). The speed grew quickly, and the kombi’s 4^th gear wound the engine likely well past red-line (there was no tachometer) 80mph..90..

The above is a photo-embellished reenactment, but I can personally attest seeing it from over the kit. Our best guess was that Chad had somehow hit 108mph at the bottom of that hill. Four lunatics in a rickety old van. Balls to the Wall.

Chad took us around the city, through downtown and the Lakeshore Mall area just to the south. All the turned heads when we passed…priceless. But it was one song, over and over and over. You’d think we had ample time to work up another, but NOPE -- it was Accept or death! We came close to that, as a matter of fact. Not because of Chad’s piloting, but because we were not exactly mindful to take ventilation breaks. Too late, we were gassed and choking. This *is* nuts! And, like the resourceful idiots we were, someone always came up with a crazy solution. I don’t recall if it was Chad himself or one of us who put Chad up to it, but what came next was grand theft auto. Well, sort of. It was actually Chad theft daddy’s BBQ catering bus. It had plenty of jam space and a built-in generator. Perfect, except we did not, in any way, have permission to take it from his lot in Oakwood.

You might observe that I’m playing fast and loose in using “perfect” to describe our endeavor. Four kids were about to embark on Round Two of mayhem using a converted school bus for barbeque catering. I believe it even had a shingled roof. No memory of pig artwork, though. Maybe “perfect” would then be accurate. We loaded up, tuned the instruments, made a quick sound check (with what else!) and set off for Gainesville.

Along the way we recognized a car that had been following us around the mall area. Don’t know why they tailed us. Same song over and over? Maybe it was a morbid curiosity thing. We were bound to get arrested somehow. It was now after 11pm and we were surely breaking a local noise ordinance. Besides, why was a BBQ bus out so late? Nonetheless, this late-70s/early-80s electric blue Pontiac Firebird had been tailing us, and he was on our bumper yet again. Odd, but he finally peeled off when we ventured down historic Green Street. That was sure to gain the wrong sort of attention. For those who don’t know, it’s lined with gorgeous Antebellum mansions used now mostly for offices, but back then, a handful remained private residences.  How dare we? Then another brilliant idea happened.

Monty and either Chad or Jimmy (I can’t remember) were dating a couple sorority gals who lived at the all-female Brenau College (now University) campus nearby. What could go wrong if we stopped for a visit? Everything, of course. We found a suitable lot off Prior Street across from Crudup Hall and parked. While the guys were dancing in the dark, Dunkin’s Finest surrounded the catering bus, flashlights a blazin’, radios a crackin’ with a third hand on their sidearms. Brenau’s ace security force had been watching us and called in the heavies. Three cruisers pinned the bus (and us) while they completed a search. Monty and (let’s just say it was Jimmy) was still in the dorm. Now, as far as I was concerned, I was merely a passenger. I hadn’t invaded a sorority house after curfew, and the bus was Chad’s albatross. I just sat and kept silent while everything unfolded. Chad did the talking and finally the other guys materialized down a sidewalk that wouldn’t implicate any particular dorm. All I remember after several minutes was that morbid cackle from one of the patrolmen’s radios, “Uh, <crack> Mister Vaughn’s gettin’ his pants on, said he’d be there in twenty minutes.”

Shit.

Well, this would be awkward. Although Monty and Jimmy were familiar, I’d never met Chad’s father and this certainly wasn’t the sort of introduction I preferred, but, sure enough, twenty minutes later, there he was. You can imagine the fussing that ensued, but Mr. Vaughn was quite the pragmatic and his rhetoric was curt. With a seething glare, he told me just to ride on the bus with Chad until we got back to the lot in Oakwood. Unload and go. Nothing else. He didn’t need to say anything else; his expression said everything. Don’t let me see you face again.

No problem.

I believe that was the fastest break-down and reloading job I ever did. In just a few minutes (if more than two!) we were back in the kombi headed home. Except poor Chad, that is. He had to pay for his crime. I can’t recall if we saw him anytime soon after that night, either. As for us, we were now marked men, and it behooved us to call it a night. We escaped jail -- heck, we even escaped a lecture! --  and it was best not to tempt lurking demons. One by one, I dropped off the guys and their equipment, then headed home. My bet was we all laughed a little going to sleep that night. I mean, who does this? Four numbnuts from Hall County, that’s who, and just ask any one of us if it’s real. You can ask one more guy too. That blue Firebird? We later discovered that it belonged to one of Gainesville’s most notoriously lovable loons, Med Lindorme, who indeed admitted he just wanted to see the looks on everyone’s faces as we blasted past them, and how we would eventually meet our doom. Complete bastard, this guy. <ducks>


Now, this story could end right there. Any glory for my old VW was certainly sealed that night, but it has quite an epilogue to tell.

               

The bus would go on a few more months. We partied more, and it was a reliable shuttle for those Atlanta rehearsals. Yet, I kept noticing it was consuming more and more oil. Well, as the dreaded foreshadowing mandates, Monty and I were departing an Atlanta musical shindig on the west side of Tucker when another drummer needed a lift. Not too far, he said, just down to the Morningside-Lenox area. I had no idea where this was, but hey, he was a drummer, so drummer-brothers unite! Bad call as it turned out. About two miles before the Cheshire Bridge Road, Lenox exit on I-85 southbound, the engine suddenly grew loud with the pinging racket of a diesel. The oil!  I knew what the problem was but I had to find an exit near a gas station and pronto. Druid Hills Rd exit had what we needed and was coming up fast, but a line of traffic cut me off completely from the off ramp. Missed! The noise grew louder as I reduced speed, but it was too late. The engine ceased with a loud bang, locking the rear tires before I nailed the clutch and found neutral. We were coasting towards the Cheshire Bridge/Lenox exit now, all downhill, but I saw no gas stations. There was no time for dour reflection. I managed the exit and made a quick right to coast away from a busy intersection, coming to a stop in front of an apartment complex just beyond a short bridge crossing Peachtree Creek. All was quiet.

“You smell something?” came from our passenger, and both Monty and I looked back at him. We immediately weren’t looking at our drummer friend though, as thick black smoke and flames were billowing from the kombi’s rear air intakes.

“We’re on fire!”

We jumped out in a panic, but there wasn’t much to do. You could see the flames broiling inside the engine compartment through the cracks in the rear hatch. Not good. The gas tank was located right below the engine, and it was going to explode at some point, Hollywood-style. I thought about any valuables. None. Wait a minute… My high school class ring was in the glove box! I never wore it when performing or practicing, and I grew out of wearing rings completely. Messed with my sticking and well, skin rashes. Anyway, I still wanted it and went back to get it. Monty yelled for me to get back, kind of laughing at the whole thing. We were stuck an hour from home with no ride. Guys like us tend to laugh during stressful moments anyway. I was too, just not nearly as much as Monty. The other guy -- the drummer -- was just speechless. We meant to give him a lift, now we needed one ourselves. But… back to the bus.

I chased down some poor old country mechanic who had the grand misfortune to make the bottom of the exit ramp about the time my bus’ rear was visibly engulfed. “YO! Any chance you have a fire extinguisher?” He hopped out and opened the tailgate to his camper-topped pickup. “Well, I think I might.” He said lazily with a heavy drawl. He dug around the piles of tools and construction waste he had amassed for several glacial moments. I didn’t think about it when I just jumped in and started tossing stuff around. I found the extinguisher within seconds, thanked him profusely and ran back to the bus. Some onlookers from the apartment complex had come to witness its demise by that point, but I was armed with Mighty Red Can now. It was one of those powder-filled varieties meant to fight kitchen fires. Couldn’t hurt, I thought.

First was to douse the flaming intake vents. I sprayed into the right side and found success, so I took the left down a couple seconds later. Now I was faced with the engine compartment. How to get it open though? Monty was bowled over by the bridge, laughing too hard to think straight, and the other drummer was AWOL as far as I could tell. That’s when one of the guys from the apartment complex sashayed over. Tight T-shirt, short running shorts (it was summer), and flip-flops. I had no idea what was to come next. In a flaming (pun intended), effeminate voice, he asked, “You want us to start a bucket train?”

Monty had an out-of-body experience. Had to. He was laughing so hard, I thought he was about to jump off the bridge. Funny, yes, but hey, what do I care? These guys were here and offering help.

“Yes, that’d be great.” I said, and man did they hop to it. Not a minute passed -- and thankfully the flames grew no worse -- before several of those apartment guys were lined up with pots and pans full of water, awaiting instructions. I told one of them that our goal was to access the engine compartment to get at the main fire with the extinguisher, but the problem was the pushbutton latch. The fire had it red hot, so probably best to hit it with a couple pans of water before attempting to open it. We staged ourselves, Monty bawling in the background, and counted down. 3…2…1! Two pans of water splashed on the rear hatch and clasp, steaming off as it hit. The lead apartment guy reached for the latch as I stood ready to blast the compartment with powder. Now folks, once or twice in a lifetime will you hear such as sound that will haunt you forever. This was one of those times for me.

There simply is no good way to describe the screech of an overtly homosexual man when he painfully burns himself, but it went something French-like—“EEEEEEAAAAUUUOOOOWWWWW”—somewhere between the death of a kitten and Jackie Gleason’s “And awaaay we go!” Unforgettable, but he did get the latch open, probably leaving a few dermis layers attached.

There it was, a boiling picture of hell itself. The entire compartment was being doused with gasoline from a (now) loose fuel line with pressure building from the tank. Fuel spewing and igniting in random patterns, the cauldron growing brighter now that it had access to more oxygen. Now was my moment to be the hero. I stepped up and squeezed the trigger. Nothing but a spit. I shook the container furiously and tried again. Nothing. The bottle was empty.

While gripping his hand in pain, the Champion of the Latch called his buddies over and they made quick work of the fire with their bucket train. In a moment, it was out and smoldering—a charred, black lump of wires and melted hoses -- probably a total loss. We took a breath or two to congratulate ourselves, and I wondered, where was the fire department in all this time?

A couple minutes after the apartment guys made contact, they automatically called the Atlanta FD. I heard sirens for several minutes but they always seem to just pass on by. Around ten minutes after the fire was out, Fat Albert and his gang pulled up in his pumper truck, had me sign a bunch of paperwork, and made his inspection. “Man, that looks bad. It’s looks out but we gonna put it out more.” Out came the hoses and they blasted the entire bus with water until no smoke or steam was evident. If the bus wasn’t a loss before, it surely was now. Monty finally stopped laughing….for the moment. How were we to get home?

We were squatting on the curb with a dripping heap in front of us. The smell of rank burnt plastic and leaded paint permeated everything. Somehow the buses tires were intact, as was most of the van, actually. Although thoroughly soaked inside and out, the fire had somehow been contained to the engine compartment. The tires were fine, as were the chassis mechanicals -- steering and brakes still worked, as did the clutch and transmission shifter. I asked the apartment guys if I could park the van in their lot overnight. I’d have it picked up the next day with a rented tow bar for my father’s old Chevy truck. “Sure” they said. “You guys need a ride somewhere?”

Monty gave a curt “Nope!” from the curb. No way was he taking a ride from those guys. Oh well. So how were we to get home anyway? That’s when our passenger finally chimed in, offering to give is a ride all the way back to Monty’s parents’ home in Oakwood. We would be hoofing it to the drummer’s house though, still a few miles away. After parking the van and thanking the apartment guys -- noble and brave sacrifices all -- we set off southward down Cheshire Bridge Road.

Oops! I overlooked one item; we’d been at a party, and at this time in our lives, we were doing the big-hair heavy metal thing. Ahh, the ‘80s! But there we were, the three of us with teased and hairsprayed tresses draped over those spiffy Don Johnson linen jackets, leather ties, bleach-blotted dungarees and colored leather Oxfords…in the gayest part of town…on foot. Now, Monty would say that we were better off not taking advantage of the apartment guys’ offer, and I’d probably agree, but it was equally and hilariously just as bad being whistled at by carloads of locals for that several mile trot. If an inanimate object could project karma, my poor Volkswagen was having its revenge. Finally, we made it to (Duff’s?) mother’s house, requisitioned her Mustang, and made it back to Oakwood in the middle of the night. From there, Monty and I hopped in his RX-7 and blazed for North Hall and home.

The next day went as planned. We rented a tow bar for the bus and drove the old ’63 Chevy pickup down to Atlanta. It had no trouble hauling the charred hulk back to Gainesville. Maybe it was still worth something after all? The tires were still good as new! That’s what my uncle Chesley ultimately saw in it, buying it off me, mercifully, for $200 a few days later. That happened to be the exact cost of the tires I installed just a few weeks earlier, so I was okay with it. Who else would take a burnt wreck? But then it was gone, and that was that.



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To comment, I catch myself noticing today’s kids glued to their little screens, and I wonder what their best-imagined form of civil disobedience might be. Hacking the school library? COS-pranking the local mall? Protesting a presidential tweet? I'm glad that's not everybody.